Savage Burn

by Lisa Renee Jones

  The minute my phone stops ringing, my heart skips a beat. “He’ll call back, Rick,” I say. “I let it go to voicemail to talk to you, but I can’t risk triggering him. What if he goes after my father?”

  “Which is why I didn’t let you take that call,” Rick assures me, eyeing Adam. “Find out if he’s calling while sitting with Pocher. You don’t want you, or your father, to end up on Pocher’s radar beyond Gabriel’s expiration date.”

  Expiration date.

  Death.

  I swallow hard. “Right. No. I don’t.” Now I eye Adam and the understanding in his eyes is there now, respect, too, for where Savage’s head is right now. Savage isn’t responding emotionally. He’s thinking and calculating our next move, and suddenly I’m thankful that I didn’t answer that call.

  Adam’s phone picks that moment to start ringing and he eyes the caller ID. “It’s Asher.” He answers the call and we watch him, waiting as he listens, and then says, “Got it. I’ll call you back.” He disconnects and says. “Seems Savage is right to worry. Asher has a waiter on the payroll who bugged the salt shaker. We’ll get the full audio when the dinner is over. Bottom line, Pocher wants to vet Candace at some ball next weekend.”

  “The governor’s military appreciation ball,” I say. “It’s an annual charity event held here in San Antonio at Fort Sam. I need to call Gabriel back.” I grab Rick’s arm. “I can handle him. I promise.”

  His jaw sets hard and his gaze turns skyward, seeming to battle some internal argument, seconds ticking by before he glances down at me. “Buy time. Stay away from him. That’s your mission. And most importantly, avoid in-person contact with him.”

  My cellphone rings again and I glance down at Gabriel’s number. “I got this,” I promise.

  He gives a nod and I answer the call, steeling myself to perform the uncomfortable fiancée routine in front of Rick. “Hi,” I answer tightly, too tightly. I don’t sound normal. I just can’t play this game with Gabriel while Rick’s eyes burn holes in my face. I turn away. No. I don’t just turn away. I’m now facing one of the two exits that lead out of the kitchen; this one to the hallway leading to the other side of the living room. I take it. I step into the hallway and pause there. Rick is the reason I don’t go further. I’m not shutting him out. That’s not what this is. I’m just trying to survive this—all of this.

  “Hi, buttercup,” Gabriel greets and I can tell he’s on speakerphone. “I tried to call you,” he adds, just a hint of accusation in his tone.

  “I’m sick,” I say and truly I sound sick like I’m about to throw up because I am. Talking to him makes me sick. How did I ever touch this man? How did I ever say yes to this man? “I’ve been laying here on the bathroom floor trying to get the energy to call you back.”

  “Are you still at your father’s?”

  For reasons I can’t explain, this question feels like a trap, or like it could become a trap. “Home,” I reply. “I came home. I thought it was over. It’s not. I’m glad you’re not here. It must be more the flu than food poisoning and you can’t afford to catch it. When are you coming back?”

  “Another day or two.” And just that fast, he moves on, past me being sick. “You remember we have yet another event next weekend, correct?”

  “I do,” I say, the topic stirring the urgency of a conversation with Savage over what comes next for me with Gabriel. He’s going to come back. Then what? “I’ll certainly fit into any dress I like by then.”

  “Get a new dress this time in advance,” he says, ignoring my reference to being sick. “I need you to look good.”

  My defenses prickle. “You know, Gabriel,” I say, “you really can be insensitive.” It’s out before I can stop it.

  “You know I think you’re beautiful.”

  He still doesn’t get it. Like, at all. How am I engaged to this man?

  “Do I need to rush home and show you?” he offers.

  “No,” I say quickly. God, what am I doing? “No.” I take a step further into the hallway, panic threatening to win over. “I’m not that needy girl who has to be coddled. I’m sick and cranky and you don’t need to end up sick with me. Stay there. Do what you need to do. And I’ll pick up a new dress.”

  “You could come here,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it. I hear that in his voice, thank God.

  “Even if I wasn’t sick, I have a job,” I reply.

  “Right. My architect fiancée. The voters are going to love you.” The voters, I think, not him. Not that I care, but it certainly proves that even before I knew Gabriel’s true colors, before I started to sour on him, I ignored things I should not have; too many things. “I’ll see you Friday,” he says, his only indication he’ll be gone all week. And just that quick, he’s hung up. Good. He’s gone. He can stay gone. I slide my phone back into my pocket and turn to find Rick standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a half-lidded stare on his stoic features. He’s so big. So powerful. So overwhelmingly male. He’s also not happy, but neither am I. This isn’t a comfortable situation.

  “He’s not back until the weekend,” I say.

  “You didn’t want me to hear that conversation.” His tone is flat. Hard.

  I don’t even think about denial. “It’s hard enough to pretend with him. It’s impossible when I’m looking at you.”

  “You feel guilty.”

  “No,” I say firmly. “I don’t. No guilt. Not with him, at least.” I close the space between us, stopping in front of him. “Rick, I—”

  “Said yes to him.”

  My defenses prickle. “You know why I said yes. You know, Rick. I was protecting my father. And even if that weren’t the case, you were gone forever. You left me alone.” My hand settles on his chest, closing around his shirt. “I never stopped loving you. That’s why I couldn’t see how bad he was. I was trying to hide from how damn much I missed you. I know you know that.”

  “Yes,” he says, his voice vibrating low and rough. “I know.”

  My heart squeezes in my chest, and painfully. “You don’t know.” Seconds tick by and I can barely breathe because he doesn’t correct me. He doesn’t reply. “Rick. I—you left me. I was alone, and—”

  His hands come down on my arms and he pulls me to him. “I know. I fucking know what I did. And I was a fool.” His forehead finds mine. “I let him get close enough to you to buy you a damn ring.”

  “For his political gain. That man doesn’t love me.”

  “No matter what the reason, you put his ring on. I let that us get to the place. I let that happen. That’s hard to swallow.”

  “You know I don’t—”

  “Love him,” he supplies. “I know. I did this.” He cups my head and fixes me in a tormented stare. “And I’m going to make it up to you. That’s a promise.” He inhales, his broad chest expanding with a breath as he takes my hand. “Right now, though,” he breathes out, “I need you to look at something with me.”

  He doesn’t give me a chance to dread whatever this might be. He’s already leading me down the hallway. “What is it?” I ask as we enter the bedroom.

  “The book I grabbed from your father’s office,” he says, releasing me. “It’s in my bag in the closet,” he adds, heading in that direction. “I’ll grab it.”

  I quickly follow. “What about Adam and Smith?” I ask.

  “They can wait,” he says, over his shoulder, disappearing inside the bathroom on his way to the closet.

  Still pursuing, I catch him in the closet, as he adds, “This cannot wait. We should have already looked at this.” He kneels next to his bag and pulls out the book. “Does it look familiar?”

  I kneel as well, opposite him across from his bag, and grab the book, frowning. “It does actually. This was in his home office. It’s not just a military training manual. It’s an antique. Actually, not just an antique.” I glance up at him. “My mother gave it to him. You found it at Fort Sam?”

  “Under his couch in his office and there’s something stuffed insi
de it.” He takes the book from me and flips it open to show me. He’s right. There’s something inside it, shoved into the spine or maybe in between a special map insertion.

  “I don’t understand. He wouldn’t destroy this book, but it’s damaged.”

  “Maybe that’s the point,” Rick suggests. “No one would think he’d destroy this book, but we’re going to have to.”

  “We can’t, Rick. It’s special. And valuable.”

  “To save him, baby. To save him. I’ll have it restored. You have my word.”

  I press my hands to my face and then drop them. “Right. Okay. Yes. We have to.”

  “Let’s go into the kitchen table. I want to lay it out and do as little damage as possible.” I nod and he stands, helping me to my feet, dread filling me. Whatever this is, whatever we’re about to find, it’s not good. And it’s certainly proof that my father is in danger, not that I needed proof beyond the text message I read. All I can hope is that this might be ammunition we can use to keep him alive.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Candace

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting at the kitchen table next to Rick, with Smith and Adam on either side of us. Thanks to a special kit Adam had in his vehicle, wherever that may be, Rick is wearing plastic gloves and now has a long pair of tweezers and a special thin blade at his disposal. With a lamp above the book, Rick is now officially operating on an antique book, his skill with a knife remarkably comforting considering the connection it holds to my mother.

  He studies it, examining his different options before he finally cuts the map I’d noticed earlier from the center of the book and sets it aside. With tweezers, he then pulls a piece of folded paper from the inside of the book. Another follows. And then another. Then two more.

  Rick sets the tweezers down and unfolds the first sheet of paper, which contains two letters next to a series of numbers. I stare at it and then glance at Rick, watching a muscle tick in his jaw. He opens the second. This looks like coordinates and dates. That muscle in Rick’s jaw ticks harder and I glance at Adam and Smith to find them both watching Rick with all-consuming interest.

  Rick opens the next piece of paper, and the next, and finally, goes back to one list of words and phrases that mean nothing to me:

  Skydrop

  Doppler

  Redrock

  Willow

  The list is about fifty deep, but there are two words circled:

  Westwood

  Keystone

  Rick sets all the paperwork down and then stands up, stepping away from the table. He walks to the center of the kitchen, giving us his back, hands on his hips, spine stiff. All eyes are on him and all kinds of things fly through my mind. I’m terrified and I don’t even know why. “Rick,” I say, pushing to my feet, hugging myself. “What is it?”

  He turns to face us, yanking off the gloves. Adam is now holding one of the pieces of paper. “This is a list of dog tags,” he indicates. “Socials, religious preferences, initials. All but a few of them have red dots next to them. I’m guessing this is what has you pissed off. Those people are dead, aren’t they?”

  “I’m on there. I’m alive, but I don’t have a red dot. I can piece together who a couple of the initials reference and they’re dead. And yes, they have red dots by their names.”

  “In other words,” I say, and it feels like a vice is closing on my chest, “you’re on a hit list.”

  “Yeah,” he agrees. “I suspect that’s what your father figured out. That everyone who worked for the black ops project was dying, but you know, whatever on that. Let them come for me. I’ll kill any motherfucker that’s brave enough to try.”

  Unless he gets killed first. The idea is too much to bear. He just came back into my life. I can’t lose him again. I close the space between us and catch his arm, giving the rest of the room my back, focusing on him, just him. “You have to take shelter.”

  He slides a hand to my neck and pulls me close, kissing me. “I’m good, baby. I promise.”

  “You’re not good,” I argued. “No one on a hitlist is good and you’re on edgy. You’re all but pacing and you don’t pace.”

  “I’m pissed,” he says. “And I’m damn good and dangerous when I’m pissed.”

  “What are Westwood and Keystone?” Smith asks.

  “That’s what’s got me pissed off,” Savage says, dragging me under his arm and to his side. “Those are all mission names. And I was one of a handful of men on those two missions. One of those men has a red dot by his name.”

  “What were they?” Adam says, and now everyone is standing. We’re all standing in the center of the kitchen.

  “I know the names,” Rick says. “I know vague details. They were stateside.”

  “That’s it?” Adam presses. “Vague details?”

  “That was the window where me and vodka ran the missions together. Apparently, I was better drunk than sober. The good news in this is that I kept details of every mission—photos, disc drives, and documents—just in case I ever needed to cover my ass.”

  “Where?” I ask. “Where are they?”

  He scratches right above his lip and releases me. “That’s the bad news.” His hands settle on his hips. “I had a few places I hid things. I just can’t exactly remember where the fuck the last spot might have been.”

  “Are you fucking serious?” Adam and Smith say at the same time.

  “Yes, I’m fucking serious,” Rick snaps. “Do you think I’d joke about shit like this?” He glances at me. “Do we have vodka?”

  Now it’s my turn. Aside from him referencing “we,” I’m blown away. “Are you fucking serious, Rick?”

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” he scolds.

  “Because you don’t deserve it?” I challenge. “You want vodka?”

  “I need triggers,” he says. “I need to remember.”

  “So, drinking the booze that makes you forget helps how? Think of something else.”

  “Give me someone to kill,” he snaps back. “That’ll work.”

  “No one handy right now,” I say, “though the coffee shop up the road always screws up my order and the clerk is rude. Maybe you can head in that direction?”

  “Aren’t you funny?” he challenges.

  “Not usually,” I reply. Someone’s phone buzzes with a text message, but I glare at Rick and add, “And neither are you right now.”

  “We have the audio file from the meeting between Pocher and Gabriel headed our way,” Adam says. “I’ll pull it up on my computer.”

  Rick grabs me and pulls me to him, giving the other two men his back. “You really are perfect.”

  “You know what would be perfect? If you remembered where you put the mission data.”

  “I will.”

  “How?”

  “Completely,” he says. “I’ll remember. I’ll remember it all.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes,” he assures me. “That’s right.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “How?”

  “You don’t get to ask that again.”

  “You know what else would be perfect?” I ask.

  He leans in close and whispers, “You naked and my tongue on your—”

  I pull back. “You never drinking vodka ever again.”

  “That, too,” he agrees. “But my tongue. Think about my tongue.”

  “Stop.”

  “That’s not what you would say if you were naked.”

  “Rick!”

  “That’s what you would say.”

  I punch him. He laughs, but it’s not a real laugh. There’s a sharp edge to the sound. Sharp as the blade his brilliant, deadly hands hold to save lives and take them. And right now, I find his skill as a killer far more comforting than I should.

  Rick and I are still standing in the middle of the kitchen, and his vodka joke fades into a swift darkening of his mood, a sharp knife of torment jabbing at his stare, there and gone, before he
says, “I need to make a few calls.” He strokes my hair behind my ear. “I’ll be right back.” And just that quickly, he’s backed away and walked to the patio door, where he exits.

  I stare after him, my growing realization a boxing match of emotion inside me. What horrible things did he do and experience to drink his way through it all to survive? And my father put him in that place, he made that Rick’s life. Why? Why would he have done that to the man I love?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Savage

  Standing on the porch, I dial an old bud who lives in Houston these days. Someone who worked for Tag and walked away. Someone I bonded with over Texas and tornadoes, and we were the tornadoes. Someone on the general’s list with no red dot by his name and dog tag, and I want to keep it that way. Max and I get each other. He’s a killer who’d had enough killing when he met a woman and fell in love. The phone rings twice and then goes to voicemail. I dial another number, his woman’s number. It rings once and a familiar female voice answers. “Savage?”

  She sounds nervous and hopeful. That’s not good. Damn it to hell. “Hi, Kelly,” I say. “Where’s Max?”

  “I was hoping you were going to tell me you knew.”

  Fuck me. Fuck. Fuck. Triple fuck me. “How long has he been missing?”

  “He left on a contract job two weeks ago. He said he’d been gone a week.” She sobs. “You’re calling me. That means he’s not coming back, is he?”

  I want to lie to her. I want to tell her he abso-fucking-lutely will be back, but I can’t lie either. “He has reason to go into hiding. That means he can’t come to you without putting you in danger. Where are you?”

  “A safe house he set-up in New York City. He said to come here if ever he didn’t come back, but now what? I’m here and now what?”

  A safe house. He set-up a safe house, and of course, why wouldn’t he? He might not kill for a living any longer, but our pasts are riddled with enemies. Holy hell, is that what I’ve ensured is Candace’s future? “Do you have a new identity and money?”

  “Yes. It’s all here, but I don’t want a new identity and money. I want Max.”

  “I know,” I say, thinking of all the times I just wanted Candace. “He’s thinking the same of you right now. Write down this number. You have a pen?”